


happy golden days of yore

by blueink3



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cabin Fic, Christmas, Darkish Timeline AU, Exes, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous Use of F Bombs, Hand Jobs, Husbands, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Reconciliation, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28234053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: “What are you doing here?”Patrick blinks beneath the toque shoved onto his head, steadily dripping melting snow from his coat onto the mat they once purchased together. “Um… it’s my weekend."What? David is already shaking his head, but Patrick takes a step forward, eyes wide, skin pale despite his cold-flushed cheeks.“I get Christmas. You get New Years. I thought..." Patrick trails off and licks his lips. Behind him, snow blows in through the still-open doorway. "I thought that's what we agreed."Or, the exes-stuck-in-a-cabin fic I wrote totally and completely for myself.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 271
Kudos: 604





	happy golden days of yore

**Author's Note:**

> this idea only came to me on saturday. i started writing sunday. it is now thursday. i have no idea if it's coherent, but it was written with love. happy merry, you absolute gems. x

❄✨ _December 22nd_ ✨❄

“Oh.”

The ceramic mug slips from his loose grip, cracking on the coffee table and spilling hot cider everywhere as he stares at his ex-husband standing in the doorway. He hasn’t heard that voice in so long. 

“What are you doing here?” he blurts, not even caring that the liquid is slowly inching its way towards the edge of the restored wood where it will proceed to drip all over the handwoven rug below. 

Patrick blinks beneath the toque shoved onto his head, steadily puddling melting snow from his coat on the mat they once purchased together. “Um… it’s my weekend.” 

What? No, that’s - David is already shaking his head, but Patrick takes a step forward, eyes wide, skin pale despite his cold-flushed cheeks. 

"I get Christmas. You get New Year's. I thought..." Patrick trails off and licks his lips. Behind him, snow blows in through the still-open doorway. "I thought that's what we agreed.” He looks more panicked than David has ever seen him. Including the day they signed their divorce papers. “It’s in the calendar.” 

It is _not_ in the calendar.

“No, I would have remembered if I had New Year's,” David says with a sniff, ignoring the curls peeking out from beneath Patrick’s hat. “I would have made plans.” 

Like hell. David hasn’t had New Year's plans in years. 

“Right, I’ll just - ” Patrick gestures to the coffee table, dropping his bag on the mat and moving to grab the roll of paper towels he must have stashed in the chest by the coat rack. He doesn’t shut the door, though, which is incorrect on multiple levels, not the least of which means it’s rapidly leaching what little heat David had managed to hoard in their spacious (for a cabin) living room. Maybe he’s trying to leave one of them an out. A hasty escape - if it comes to that.

Patrick unravels a couple of sheets as David pulls his phone out of his pocket, opening up the shared calendar that exists solely for this godforsaken reason. Entirely to prevent situations such as this. 

**December 22**

And beneath it, an all-day hold in a damning blue box that stretches until December 26th. It simply reads, **Patrick**.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, ears starting to ring. 

_Fuck._

“Oh my _God_.” He tries to remember what he can of his most recent guided meditation, but fuck that. He can barely remember his own _name_. 

“It’s really fine, David. I got it before it reached the rug.” 

David looks up to find him already cleaning up the mess, which is such a - a _Patrick_ thing to do that he has to bite his lip to keep from screaming. He came here to get away from all of this. Not to - 

Nope. He bites harder. 

Don’t touch that thread. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Patrick asks softly, because he’s still able to read David’s face like a spreadsheet - everything broken down and bare, categorized, like David’s features are a formula. And all Patrick has to do is enter the data. 

“It’s, um,” his tongue feels too large for his mouth, “it’s your weekend.” 

Patrick could say any number of things - _I know, I told you, Obviously, No shit -_ but instead, the corner of his mouth just lifts ever so slightly, the only retort David is going to receive. He misses the teasing. It was one of the first things to go and David has ached for it ever since. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Patrick says, like it _is_ , standing there with a wad of sodden paper towels soaking up David’s spilled cider, like it’s a Saturday night and they’re back at his apartment. Together. Like Patrick cleaning up David’s messes is something he still does. 

No, only David can clean this up. 

“What were you doing here anyway?” 

“What?” he asks, blinking numbly, but Patrick only smiles in that knowing way he does. David doesn’t think it’s quite as fond as it used to be. 

“I said, ‘what were you doing here anyway.” 

“Oh, well.” He fidgets. “Mandy has the store.” 

“I know,” Patrick replies, and there’s a glimmer of… something there. Some spark. Maybe it’s teasing? It’s been too long to be sure. “I saw the calendar.” 

Ah. The only other one they share beyond the cabin. 

“No, I meant - what were you doing here, instead of…” he shrugs, “New York or LA?” 

“Oh.” 

_Oh._ There’s no shrugging off the concept of New York or LA, though. At least not where his ex-husband is concerned. 

“Alexis is with Ted and Mom’s on location for another Crows film, so…” 

“Right,” Patrick nods and the muscle in his jaw jumps as he shoves his hands in the pockets of the coat he’s still wearing, despite the fact that he’s the only one technically allowed to be here. It says so in the calendar and everything. 

“Well,” David swallows hard and claps his hands, sticky from congealing cider, “I’ll just get out of your hair then.” 

He wonders if leaving Patrick will ever stop feeling like the moment he said goodbye for the last time as husbands. He hopes it does. It’s not something he can handle on a regular basis. It's been years and his fortitude is waning, wearing down like salt water lapping at a pier. 

“Why don’t you stay?” Patrick asks, like it’s nothing. And maybe to him, it is, but to David - 

Well, to David it’s fucking everything. 

Patrick shifts and finally takes his toque off, letting his new curls roam free. “I mean - you’re here, and it’s already coming down pretty hard.” 

Another gust of snow blows through the _still_ open door, and David shakes his head vehemently. 

“No, I can’t do that,” he blurts, because he physically fucking can’t. Spending a holiday with Patrick and his… his _whatever_ is akin to torture. 

“Of course you can,” Patrick replies before David cuts him off:

“Where’s Ryan?” His heart pounds. _Breathe._

“Oh.” Patrick steps back and finally reaches a shaking hand out to the door, pushing it shut and plunging the cabin into silence.

David might have preferred the gale. 

“Um, we broke up.” Like the closed door wasn’t evidence enough that no one else would be joining them. 

“Oh,” he murmurs, but fucking _OH_ runs through his mind accompanied by neon flashing lights. 

Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets again and gives a little shrug beneath the thick puff of his jacket. “Yeah. Few weeks ago.” 

This is not what David was prepared for when he showed up here with the promise of copious amounts of booze, some scented candles, and maybe a novel or two. To be faced with his newly single ex-husband in the cabin they share like a child custody agreement. 

“Um, I’m sorry,” he manages, because it seems like the decent thing to do. Even if thinking about Patrick’s love life causes an ice pick to lodge itself in his already picked-apart heart. Still to this day. To this blustery, unexpected, clusterfuck of a day. 

“David, please stay,” Patrick murmurs. “I know how well that car drives in the snow.” 

And it’s true, he does. Before - well, before everything, David had finally gotten rid of the Lincoln and they got an SUV. Since Patrick ended up spending more of his time in Canada, the SUV became his by default and David took his old sedan. Things were... made more official in the court documents later. 

“Just stay.” 

It’s already getting dark because daylight isn’t a thing that exists in winter anymore. Certainly not in rural Canada. 

Patrick smiles, like he already knows the answer but is letting David come to the conclusion himself. “How about you think it over while I get my things from the car.” 

David nods numbly and watches Patrick shove the toque back on his head and open the door once more. It’s so like him to give David space without David having to ask for it. He supposes Patrick got used to the cues while they were married. Then he ended up giving him more space than David ever dared ask for. Too much, in fact. 

He rubs at his bare ring finger with his thumb. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed that Patrick didn’t respond to David’s acknowledgement of the dissolution of his relationship. He and Ryan had been together maybe a year, give or take. David honestly doesn’t know if they actually got to that first anniversary, nor does he care to. Though Stevie did call him up one night out of the blue and get him rip-roaring drunk for no particular reason. Maybe that was it.

The one year anniversary of the first relationship Patrick had after David. 

David didn’t even know he was meant to be heartbroken that night. Then again, that does seem to be his baseline these days. These weeks. 

These years. 

The door bangs open again and a gust of snow precedes Patrick before he appears, weighed down by another duffle bag over his shoulder and a heavy-looking box in his hands. 

“Do you need help?” His hands are _still_ sticky, but he reaches forward and takes the box anyway. 

“No, David. I’m crashing your holiday - ”

“Pretty sure I’m crashing yours,” he mutters, looking down and spying that the cardboard in his hands is loaded with… booze. “Expecting a party?” 

With what David packed, too, they might as well be. 

“No, just…” Patrick actually looks sheepish. “Well, maybe of the pity variety.” 

David lets those words gut-punch him somewhere in the vicinity of his solar plexus. Of course Patrick is sad. He just ended a relationship. One that clearly meant a lot to him. David sympathizes entirely too well. Entirely too much, given the fact that it’s been four fucking years. 

Patrick, oblivious to everything going on in the mind of the man across from him, drops his duffle and blows hotly into his gloveless hands. “Let me get the tree and then I’ll move all of this out of the way.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” he blurts. “The tree?” 

“Yeah, David,” he says with a wry smile as he turns toward the door. “Even a sad Christmas deserves a tree.” 

Oh no. He's not even 87% behind that assessment, but sure enough, through the open entryway, David can see a tiny twig strapped to the top of Patrick’s car. Okay, ‘twig’ is unkind. It’s definitely better than Charlie Brown, but it’s not exactly Rockefeller Center. It’s a small thing, something easily maneuverable by someone assuming he’d be celebrating alone. 

David grumbles a bit as he tugs his boots on, the boots Patrick bought him when he complained one time too many about his Rick Owens getting ruined by salt and snow. Given what a stink he made about how god-awful they were, he’s a little embarrassed to have Patrick see him in them now. Luckily, his ex-husband is too busy wrestling with the bungee cord holding the tree to the roof, so David pulls his coat on and stomps down the steps from the porch, only slipping twice. 

“What can I do?” 

“Oh, uh…” Patrick seems genuinely surprised to see him. Which - fair, considering David didn’t even help with activities like this when they were married. Why do it now that they’re divorced? “Can you unhook the bungee from that side? I can take it from there, if you wouldn’t mind getting the door.” 

“Sure.” He comes around to the side of the car he and Patrick used to do vendor runs in whenever David wasn’t in New York, and opens the door to release the hook. “Okay, all set.” 

“Thanks,” he hears Patrick say from the other side and the bungee is tugged out of sight before the cargo it was holding tight to begins to move as well. 

David watches Patrick deftly pull the tree from the roof before hurrying back to the front door (as quickly as he can in the rapidly falling snow) to open it up for him.

“Thanks,” Patrick murmurs again as he passes, and David almost wishes he’d stop being so goddamn polite. He supposes that ‘polite’ is better than the opposite and, yes, David would rather have him in his life in whatever way possible, but sometimes he just wishes Patrick would give him a hard fucking time. Though he feels like porcelain more often than not, he's certainly not made of it. 

The tree is unceremoniously deposited against the wall as Patrick rummages through the hall closet for the stand. David honestly forgot it was stashed there. It’s been entirely too long since he’s spent a holiday here. 

David picks up the booze and carries it to the kitchen just for something to do, as Patrick locates the tree stand and a bag of holiday accoutrements before taking his duffle upstairs. The box in his hands is fucking _heavy_ , containing at least six bottles of wine and two bottles of liquor. Add that to David’s six bottles plus the whiskey for the cider and it’s basically his bar mitzvah. 

He refrigerates the white wine (not that there’s much) and stocks the red into the handmade rack in the pantry. He’s just stepping back into the living room when Patrick’s voice filters down from the loft. 

“You didn’t take the main room.” It sounds surprised. 

David freezes by the couch, staring at a small oval of cider on the coffee table Patrick missed in his clean up. “I never take the main room.” 

Silence falls and David looks up to find Patrick watching him carefully. His ex-husband doesn’t need to know that once Patrick started taking Ryan here, David never slept in what used to be their bedroom ever again. 

“I’m fine in the guest room,” he says. “Really.” _Please._

Patrick nods, as if he heard David’s silent plea even if he doesn’t understand it, and starts down the stairs once more. Now that he’s free of his coat and his boots and his hat, David finally takes him in. He looks compact and sturdy the way he always does, but also… fragile, in his socks and his henley, without the usual armor he has in place when he knows he and David are going to be together. Fragile but also free, with the curls he never let run wild while he and David were married. It's a choice David would have happily gotten behind, if he'd ever been given the chance. 

“Well I’ll… get out of the way,” he manages, gesturing towards the loft where the cabin’s two bedrooms reside. 

“You really don’t have to - ” Patrick starts, but David’s already halfway up the steps, waving him off while tripping over the stupid fucking boots he forgot to remove. 

“No really. There’s a sheet mask with my name on it,” he replies, but there isn’t. His packing was hasty at best and sadly his skincare bore the brunt of his negligence. 

He’s well aware how shocking that statement is. 

The door to his bedroom shuts behind him and he collapses onto one of the few handcrafted quilts that was rustic enough for the cabin and chic enough that David allowed Patrick to order it. His booted feet hang over the edge and he can hear the steady _drip drip drip_ of all kinds of horrifying liquid falling from them to the hardwood floor below. 

This is bad; this is so, so bad. How the hell did this _happen_? He looks at the calendars almost every damn day, confirming pickups and deliveries and Mandy’s schedule. How the _hell_ did he miss the fact that Patrick has the cabin this week? 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and ignores the fact that he can hear Patrick moving around downstairs, probably setting up the tree and building a fire. It was always the first thing he did when they arrived, no matter how warm out it was. _“A cabin needs a fire, David. Those are just the facts,”_ he would say and David would proceed to sweat through his Neil Barrett for the remainder of the evening. He never minded, though. And he never stopped him. When they came to the cabin, they usually didn’t stay in their clothes for very long anyway. 

He pulls up his text thread with Stevie, ignoring the pang somewhere behind his ribcage those memories cause.

**_Did you know about this?_ **

Her reply is swift, and David narrows his eyes at the phone. Was she… waiting to hear from him? 

**[Stevie]**   
**About what?**

He’s not playing this game. 

**_You and Patrick still talk. Did you know about this?_ **

**[Stevie]**   
**What the fuck are you talking about?**

That sounded genuine enough but it’s hard to tell via text. 

**_I TOLD you I was spending Christmas at the cabin!_ **

**[Stevie]**   
**Yeah. And you didn’t ask me to come. Jackass.**

He scoffs as his thumbs pound out his response. 

**_YOU’RE IN NEW YORK._ **

**[Stevie]**   
**Yeah. And you were invited. So why aren’t you?**

He pauses and stares at the screen, because… well, she has him there. There are so many things he could say, none of which he really wants to admit, nor does she really want to hear. But before he can even begin to formulate _any_ reply because he refuses to let her have the last word, a hesitant knock sounds at the door. 

“One second,” he calls, hastily undoing his laces and tugging off his boots. He fusses with his sweater for a moment before crossing the small distance and opening the door to find Patrick standing there somewhat sheepishly. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, holding out a mug like a peace offering. “Hot chocolate with Bailey’s.” 

David smiles before he can help it, gingerly taking the warm cup in his cold hands. “Thank you.” 

Patrick finally looks at him then and David wonders what he sees. He’s a little more grey around the temples and the frown lines outweigh the smile lines these days. He can’t quite decipher the expression on Patrick’s face - it’s carefully neutral, like he’s nervous and trying hard to be casual, but David knows him too well. Or, he did. 

“This doesn’t have to be as awkward as it looks on paper,” Patrick says with a slight smile. 

“Doesn’t it?” David replies before he can stop himself, and Patrick’s expression goes a bit more genuine then. 

“Not if we don’t let it. Come on. I brought stuff for bolognese. Help me decorate.” He turns abruptly, giving David no choice but to follow, his thick socks sliding on the floor. Over the railing, he can see the roaring fire in the grate and the tree that’s been put up in the corner of the room. The box of ornaments they keep on the top shelf in the closet is on the coffee table and David realizes it’s more than the sip of hot chocolate he finally takes that’s warming him from the inside out. 

“You’ve been busy,” he murmurs, and Patrick nods, picking up his own mug from next to the box and taking a gulp. 

“Prefer to be, honestly,” he replies, and David can certainly read between the lines on that, but before he can spiral too far on the fact that his recently heartbroken ex-husband is stuck in a cabin with only him for company, he catches sight of the menorah Patrick bought him years ago set up on the mantle, just above the knit stockings with each of their names delicately stitched across the top.

Patrick follows his gaze to the unlit candles lined up, nine in a row. David doesn’t think they’ve been used since the last time he and Patrick spent a holiday here.

“Ah. I know Hanukkah’s over, but,” he gives a little shrug, “wanted to represent.” 

That’s… that’s something. “Thank you,” he whispers, clutching the mug in his hands so hard, he’s genuinely worried the ceramic will crack. And he’s already busted enough mugs tonight.

“I’m going to get the lights up on the tree, and I know you have very particular opinions about ornament placement so I’ll let you tackle that while I start dinner?” 

David nods and takes another sip, just to occupy his mouth. The longer he stares at his ex-husband, the more tempting doing or saying something stupid becomes. 

“Are we really doing this?” he blurts out anyway. Like a moron. 

Patrick snorts, gracing David with his first real smile of the night as he points towards the window and the inches of snow already piling up on the sill outside. “Yeah, David. We’re really doing this.” 

And that’s it. That’s… they’re spending Christmas together. What the fuck. 

Patrick turns and starts wrestling with a string of lights, white because color is incorrect and didn’t match David’s mood board, naturally. It’s a small tree, and David helps when he can, but Patrick has it covered in no time, and he leaves David with a small smile to head into the kitchen. 

“Do you mind if I put on some Christmas music?” he calls and, through the doorway, David can see him pulling groceries out of a paper bag on the counter. “I promise to keep it on low.” 

“That’s fine,” he replies. Normally he’d have an addendum of some sort, like ‘Mariah or Celine only please’ but it’s rude to put constraints on someone else’s holiday so he keeps his mouth shut. 

Patrick puts on Celine anyway, and David has such a visceral sense of deja vu that his stomach lurches, the hot chocolate churning uncomfortably in his gut. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the weight of the ring on his left hand, and the four gold bands on his right. He can almost feel the warmth from the blanket Patrick will drape over them both as they snuggle up on the couch and watch a movie on Patrick’s laptop. 

“Hey, you okay?” Patrick’s voice makes him jump and he turns to find him hovering in the doorway, watching him with concern. 

“Yeah, yeah, good,” he manages, but if Patrick knows him like David knows Patrick, there’s no way he buys it. He holds up the mug. “Drank too much too fast, I think.” There’s _definitely_ no way he buys it. Luckily for David, he doesn’t call him out on it. “Um, are _you_ okay?” 

Patrick frowns and steps closer. “With what?” 

“I mean - you and Ryan. Do you… want to talk about it?” He _thinks_ he manages to ask it without a wince, which frankly should be an Oscar-worthy performance. It’s honestly the absolute last thing he wants Patrick to do, but they’ve always been polite, even friendly, if not exactly friends. Their divorce wasn’t messy or rancorous. It just… was. 

And what it was was really fucking sad. 

“No, David. I’m okay.” Patrick's hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezing tightly. It’s the first time they’ve touched all night, and David is electrified. “But I really appreciate you asking.” He lets go and David tries not to sway forward in an effort to keep them connected. 

God, he’s pathetic. 

Patrick disappears back into the kitchen, whistling along to Celine as he goes, leaving David with nothing but a box of ornaments and a clawing sense of self-loathing. He picks up the first ornament, thankfully nothing too sentimental, and hangs it on the tree. And as he goes through, he realizes Patrick must have buried the more nostalgic ones since he encounters only generic (if beautiful) baubles. David appreciates his forethought, even if it was only done in the name of self-preservation. 

He’s not sure how long he busies himself with the mindless activity of decorating the tree, but it’s long enough for Patrick to return with a bowl of bolognese topped with the perfect amount of parmesan. David takes it gratefully and, while it’s not how he imagined his evening going, he realizes that he doesn’t actually mind the company. A Chrismukkah miracle if there ever was one, given who said company is. 

Patrick places his bowl on the coffee table and returns to the kitchen to grab the bottle of wine he’d opened and two glasses. When he places it next to the pasta, David notices it’s one of their favorites, a vineyard they’d discovered on a rare romantic getaway to Napa. 

“So,” Patrick begins, “my plan was to drown my sorrows in a bottle of wine and old holiday movies. Care to join?” 

David laughs and nods, settling on the couch as Patrick sets up his laptop. They decide on White Christmas, which is fitting given the weather outside, and they do share a blanket, but there’s no cuddling. No, a respectable distance remains between their thighs and David feels every inch like it’s a journey too far for any one man to traverse. 

The credits eventually roll once Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney find their happy ending, and David takes care of the dishes since Patrick did the cooking. The glow from the tree and the still-burning fire casts the room in shadows. Light dances across Patrick’s pale face, and David takes a moment to stand on the step leading back into the living room to just stare.

Jesus, he really is beautiful. 

But the board beneath his sock creaks like the traitor it is, and Patrick glances up, blinking quickly and clearing his throat. “Sorry, lost in thought.” 

David shakes his head and steps closer. He’d be lost in thought, too, if he actually allowed himself to think. 

“I think I’m gonna head up,” Patrick says, standing and stretching with a groan. 

David thoroughly ignores the sliver of skin he shows when his shirt rides up. “Thank you for dinner,” he says instead and Patrick nods. 

“Thank you for staying.” 

And that’s… yeah. That’s that. 

David busies himself with straightening up nothing that actually needs to be straightened, giving Patrick time to get upstairs and use the bathroom. He watches the light click off beneath his door before allowing himself to head up as well, doing his skincare (what of it he can) and climbing into bed. It’s not the first time he and Patrick have been in separate rooms in this cabin. There was a lot of fighting towards the end; a lot of nights spent apart, raging and regretting in equal measure. 

He buries himself under the quilt and pulls up his text thread with Stevie once more, squinting as the bright light momentarily blinds him in the dark. 

**_YOU’RE IN NEW YORK._ **

**[Stevie]**   
**Yeah. And you were invited. So why aren’t you?**

He can hear the recrimination in her voice. The unspoken accusation of why he stayed. 

It’s been years. Patrick had clearly moved on, but there’s really only one reason why David hasn’t strayed far from Schitt’s Creek in the six years since he’s been back. One and only one.

And he’s in the next room. 

Yes, David technically left first, but Patrick left last. 

And David will forever regret letting him walk away.

❄✨ _December 23rd_ ✨❄

There are pillow lines on his face, his eye bags could carry the entire McQueen fall collection, and his hair resembles a mid-90s cartoon character’s. David honestly doesn’t think he’s ever been more attractive or desirable in his life. 

His hand swats for his phone, knocking it off the side table, and he whines as he rolls over and reaches down to retrieve it. 

11:07am. Holy fuck. 

He hasn’t slept that long in, well, a long time. After all, he can’t stroll in fashionably late when he’s the only one around to open the store. Sure, Patrick does it in emergencies, but it’s not part of their agreement. Patrick does the books and the contracts and the vendor runs. David sources the products and handles the day-to-day running of the store, along with Mandy whom they'd hired part-time around her class schedule and to cover holidays. Patrick is still very much a co-owner, but he took a pay cut and opened a consulting business. 

Word around town is that it’s thriving. 

All in all, Rose Apothecary is not nearly as much fun as it used to be. 

There’s a text from Stevie waiting for him and he rolls his eyes as he unlocks the phone. Might as well get it over with. But then he reads: 

**[Stevie]**   
**Your silence is deafening.**

… and he mumbles, “Fuck off,” into the otherwise quiet morning. Snow is still falling past the window, casting grey shadows on the slanted ceiling. From the comfort of his bed, he does his morning meditation, eyes closed, breath deep - trying to find some semblance of that peaceful center his guide is always going on about. Christ knows he needs it if he’s going to face the day. 

Finishing up, he kicks the covers back and promptly shivers in the chill, pulling his Uggs on his feet and an extra sweater over his head before stumbling through his morning routine and padding down the stairs. 

There’s already a fire going, and Patrick’s book of the month is resting open and face down (incorrect) on one of the couch cushions. David rescues the binding and places a wayward piece of paper in his spot instead. 

Through the doorway, he can see Patrick washing dishes at the sink in a pair of sweats and a hoodie. It’s such a familiar sight that he has to press a fist against his chest to keep it from cracking open. 

“Good morning,” Patrick greets, catching sight of him and holding out a cup of coffee. David only grunts in reply but accepts it. It’s fine, he knows Patrick won’t take it personally. “There’s a plate of french toast warming in the oven.” 

The moan that leaves his mouth borders on indecent. “Are you sure you didn’t know I was going to be here?”

“Trust me, I’m sure,” Patrick replies, but his ears are pink. “I packed my favorite comfort foods. It’s a happy accident that we like the same things.” 

“Or careful grooming on my part,” David says before his brain-to-mouth filter has a chance to wake up. 

Luckily, Patrick just laughs. “Yeah, maybe. Though you’ll have to explain to me then why you brought all of the ingredients for my mom’s turkey chili.” 

And David… honestly doesn't have a response for that. 

“Maybe it was the other way around,” Patrick continues with an atrocious wink that still has David choking on his coffee. “Speaking of my parents, I need to go FaceTime them. I promised I’d do it last night to let them know I made it, but…” he shrugs. “Got distracted.” 

David smiles because, yes, his presence here could be classified as a distraction. At the very least. Probably more of a disappointment. “Why didn’t you go see them?” 

“Oh, I just…” Patrick wipes at a counter that doesn’t need wiping. “I guess I didn’t want to bring down the mood. Ya know?” 

Oh does he ever. 

“Well tell them I said hi,” he says, almost out of habit, but then Patrick makes a face that tells David what a monumentally stupid idea that would be. “Or don’t. Yeah, don’t do that.” God, he can barely breathe. 

“No, it’s not - ” Patrick looks so frustrated with himself, he grips the dish towel harder. “They’d love to hear from you. They… they miss you.” His throat works as he swallows. “A lot. I just - I don’t want them to get the wrong impression,” he says, gesturing between them. 

“Yeah. Of course,” David quietly replies, feeling like he’s been served divorce papers all over again. And then his ex-husband goes and says: 

“Why raise their hopes, right?” 

Patrick leaves him with nothing but a full pot of coffee, maple syrup on the breakfast nook table, and an offhand comment that David can already tell will haunt him for the next few months of his life. 

What the fuck does that even _mean_? 

Well, he knows what he _thinks_ it means, but _Jesus Christ._ David Rose does not have that kind of luck. 

Or the penchant for earning that kind of forgiveness. 

He grabs a throw from the hall closet and pads back into the living room after gorging himself on french toast that's perfect and fluffy and perfectly fluffy, because Patrick knows just how he likes it. He loses himself to a couple of hours of reading, alternating it with staring out the window at the snow still falling and trying not to listen to the rise and fall of Patrick’s voice from the bedroom up above. It's muffled - he can't hear the words being said, but he knows the cadence the way Patrick knows his guitar; the notes familiar and the tune warm. 

God, he misses Clint and Marcy. He misses them so much. He'll never forget the look on Marcy Brewer's face when he and Patrick sat down and told them the news. They'd decided to tell them together, because David loved Patrick too much to let him break his mother's heart alone. Especially when it was David's fault he'd have to in the first place. No, her face was... it was disconsolate, and Clint wasn't much better. David still can't let himself think about that day for more than two minutes at a time; he physically can't. His heart stutters and his airway tightens because the thought of living in a world where Marcy and Clint Brewer think less of him ruins him almost as much as losing their son had. 

And they do. They must. He looks down at his bare ring finger again. 

How could they not? 

The clock on the wall, an antique they found at a fair in Elm Glen and argued over for a solid 37 minutes, eventually chimes, informing him that hours have passed and Patrick still hasn’t come down. Surely he’s not still talking to his parents - 

But before David can contemplate _that_ further, his phone buzzes across the coffee table and he puts his book to the side, regretting it somewhat when he sees Alexis’ name on the screen. 

He opens the text up to find a picture of his sister’s face smashed against Ted’s, lips to cheek, as a Santa hat reading _Naughty_ sits at a jaunty angle on her head. Oh for fuck’s sake. They _know_ he doesn’t want to celebrate. He’d really rather not have people’s merriment vomited all over him like a sorority girl at a pledge event.

 ** _Ew._** **_No._**

Another text comes in, this time with Stevie smushed in between an Alexis/Twyla sandwich. 

**[Alexis]**   
**Wish you were hereeeee!!!!! ❤️😘❤️😘**

He’ll deny the pang he feels at seeing it until his dying day.

 **_Ugh, why?_ **he replies instead.

**[Alexis]**   
**Because even though you’re your mopey self, we love you and if you can’t have Patrick, you might as well have the next best thing.**

His breath gusts out of him as he reads her words, and he stares at Stevie’s face again, trying to figure out if - if she knows anything about _any_ of this... But if there's one thing he's learned about his best friend over the years, it's that she's a fucking shark of a poker player, and whatever thoughts she has about any nefarious plotting she might have conducted are clearly being overridden by the absolute horror she feels at being placed in that position at all. 

**_Would we call that clown car the next best thing?_ **

**[Alexis]**   
**Aw, love you too. Boop.**

**_Gross._ **

But with his lips tucked into the corner of his mouth, he follows it up with a ❤️ and then promptly tosses the phone onto the table before she can cause him to feel anything else. Like the Grinch, he will lean into having a heart three sizes too small and _enjoy_ it, goddammit - 

“Hey.” 

David startles and looks up to find Patrick smiling at him over the railing from the loft. Surely there’s a Romeo and Juliet joke there, _Wherefore art thou?_ maybe, but he bites it back. He thinks Patrick hears it anyway if the amused look on his face is anything to go by. 

“Alexis?” he asks, pointing at the phone David just discarded without ceremony or a care that its warranty just expired. 

“How could you tell?” 

“Your face does a thing,” Patrick replies, starting down the steps, and David balks. 

“I’m sorry - my _face_ does a _thing_? Care to elaborate?” 

“Mm, nah,” he says, like a little shit. “I can just always tell when it’s Alexis on the other end of the phone.” 

David bristles at the idea of being that predictable and burrows further down into the cushions with a pout, which only makes Patrick laugh. He honestly didn’t realize how much he missed the sound until this moment. 

“How are they?” he asks, nodding at Patrick’s own phone hanging limply in his grip. And he watches that lightness shutter from his face. 

“Good. Yeah, they’re… they’re good.” 

David can’t look at his ex-husband’s pained expression anymore so he busies himself with flattening out a corner of a page that had begun to curl. “Missing you, I’m sure.” 

The click of his jaw is audible. “Yeah.” 

David needs to say something. If they’re going to be here, together, through the holiday, they can’t just keep avoiding each other like Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie at an Oscar party. 

“You know, we can exist in the same space. You don’t have to,” he waves towards the loft, “hide up there if I’m down here. We did just fine last night.” 

“No, I know,” Patrick says, nodding. “I just… needed some time.” 

David understands. He’d need time from him, too, if he did what he did to Patrick to himself. If he broke his heart not once but twice. “So how early is too early to start drinking when you’re trapped in a cabin with your ex?”

Patrick grins. “What do you think was in my coffee this morning?”

David appreciates the humor and stands, wrapping the blanket around himself with a shiver. Patrick sees it because of course he does, and immediately goes to throw a few more logs on the fire that David let die. Certainly a metaphor for something David has zero desire to examine. 

“If we’re going to stay in pajamas all day, this is going to need to be bigger,” Patrick says, and only then does David really notice that he, too, is still in his sweats. “You get the booze, I’ll get the wood.” 

There’s a joke there, too, but David avoids it like it’s Sebastien Raine at an art opening. 

“I am… very good with that," he says instead, dropping the blanket on the couch and heading for the kitchen, trying to figure out what’s an appropriate beverage to drink with your ex-husband at 3pm two days before Christmas. He only brought wine and whiskey for his cider. Patrick seems to have been on the same page with the wine, but there’s probably rum for the eggnog he saw in the fridge earlier. 

He hears the front door open (Patrick probably going to get more firewood from the log holder on the front porch) when he catches sight of the traitorous ingredients for Marcy’s turkey chili. Patrick wasn’t wrong - most of the food he cooks came from Patrick first. David just didn’t exactly realize it until today. 

He’s not entirely sure how it got to be so late in the afternoon - his book isn’t _that_ good - but if they’re going to eat the chili, he should probably start it now so it can simmer for a few hours. Patrick cooked last night; it’s the least David can do. 

The front door opens again and David pokes his head through the doorway to watch Patrick haul the bursting log carrier towards the stone hearth. It's... a good view. 

“Hey,” he says when Patrick puts it down. “I thought I might make the chili tonight.” 

“Mom’s chili?” Patrick asks with a knowing smirk and David rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, Marcy’s chili, you want it or not?” 

“I do, David, thank you,” he says softly. Fondly. Annoyingly. 

“Mkay.” He turns and marches back into the kitchen, beginning to pull out the turkey and the pepper and the spices, pointedly not turning around when Patrick enters with a few small logs to start up the wood-burning stove in the corner. The cabin isn’t exactly known for its heat retention, which is why David begins to resemble Lenny Kravitz in his bigass scarf the longer he stays here. 

Still, that Patrick thought to light the stove just because David was in the kitchen was… nice. 

“How’s the store?” he asks and David pauses, mid-onion slice, to raise an eyebrow at him. 

“That’s worrisome. Shouldn’t you know? You’re still the numbers guy.” 

Patrick looks bashful as he takes a seat at the little butcher's block they use as an island. “Looking at a sales report isn’t exactly getting the full picture, from an aesthetic perspective.” 

David goes back to slicing, and it’s definitely _not_ because it means Patrick can no longer see his expression. “You can come in, you know. You’re not, like, banned from entry.” He turns then with a sigh, because Patrick _needs_ to see his face for this. He needs to know David means it. “She’s still half yours.” 

Patrick shrugs, guarded in a way he never had been with David. Before. “Sometimes it’s easier to look from afar.” 

And David can’t argue with that. Not when sometimes he can’t even stand to be in his own place of work, the memories too vivid and the ache they leave in their wake too painful.

“Yeah,” he rasps, turning back. “I get that.” 

Patrick clears his throat and David can hear him slap his hands on his thighs. “So about that booze…” 

David laughs and tries to indicate towards a cabinet with his elbow. “I was thinking wine. There’s a good pinot noir in there, I think. I figured a lighter red for our day-drinking.” 

Patrick chuckles and pulls it out, glancing at the label as he heads back to the island to sit once more. “This is a nice wine, David. You sure you want to share?”

“What’s mine is yours,” he replies without thinking. He should have. Maybe then he would have been better prepared for Patrick to say: 

“Well, we both know that’s not true.” 

David freezes and three solid seconds of silence hover in the kitchen, sucking all the warmth from it. 

Wow. Okay.

“Jesus, David, I’m sorry.” The screech of the stool legs against the floor indicate that Patrick has stood. “That - I don’t know where that came from.” 

David drizzles some olive oil into a pan and tosses the onions in. Then he turns on the burner and wipes his hands on a towel as he faces his ex-husband once more. “Sure you do,” he says sadly. 

“No,” Patrick shakes his head, “that was a dig that wasn’t justified at all. You don’t - I mean, look at all we share,” he gestures around them, looking devastated. “You _just_ said the store was still half-mine.” Then he swallows hard. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” 

David nods, thankful that the onions have started sizzling so he can turn around and stir them. He's also thankful that if his eyes aren't exactly dry, he can blame it on them as well. “As divorces go, I suppose ours was pretty amicable.” 

Silence falls again. They both know neither would use that word to describe what it actually felt like. 

It felt like David was getting cleaved in half; and denied the hope of ever being whole again. 

“You’re getting better at that by the way,” he murmurs. 

“What?” Patrick scoffs. “Putting my foot in my mouth?”

“No. Talking through things.” He glances over his shoulder in time to see Patrick nod and fiddle with the wine opener as if debating something. 

Eventually, he says, “So my therapist tells me.” 

David puts the spoon down, giving Patrick his full attention. “You’ve been in therapy?” 

Patrick nods again. “For the past four years.” 

It’s not lost on David that that’s how long they’ve been divorced. 

“That’s actually where I was, after I called my parents,” Patrick continues. “I was having a remote session.” 

David tries not to wonder if Patrick scheduled that after he showed up to find his ex-husband in his living room - 

“Don’t worry, David. It was always on the calendar,” Patrick says with a small smile, knowing him entirely too well. Per usual. “Though I can’t deny the timing was…” he clears his throat, “fortuitous.” 

David bites his lips and nods. “Well, if we’re… sharing or whatever, I had to get into meditation after I spent the two days after I signed the papers in the throws of a panic attack so bad, Stevie took me to the hospital.” 

“What?” Patrick gasps, looking David up and down like he still might be in need of medical attention. 

David loves him a little for it. 

Because that’s the thing; the awful, terrible, fucking _typical_ thing. David never stopped loving Patrick. And he doesn’t think he ever will. 

“Yeah, so.” 

No, he knows he won’t. 

He turns back to the stove and opens up the ground turkey, tossing it in with the onions and browning the meat as the pop of the cork finally sounds behind him. And not a moment too soon. 

“Are you okay?” Patrick eventually asks. 

“Are you?” he returns, and Patrick smiles sadly. 

“Are _we_?” 

Well. Dickens couldn’t even tackle that topic. 

“Yeah,” David murmurs anyway, taking a sip of the glass Patrick hands him. “We’re okay.” 

❄✨❄

He honestly can’t tell if day-drinking with his ex-husband was the best or worst idea he’s ever had. He’s leaning towards the former, but somewhere deep down, whatever’s left of his conscience whispers it’s most definitely the latter. 

The leftover chili is cooling on the stove, the pinot noir is long since gone, and David hasn’t stopped giggling since Patrick fell ass over tea cups on the icy back steps trying to get more firewood. 

“Shut up,” Patrick grumbles, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. “That really hurt.” 

“Your ass can take it,” he replies, not even meaning it salaciously. It’s just a fact, though he does delight in the way it makes Patrick’s cheeks flush. Again, that could be the wine. 

Empty chili bowls sit on the coffee table, and David doesn’t remember when Patrick moved from the chair to the couch or when David tucked his socked toes beneath his thigh. It’s just… muscle memory. Still. Even after being given enough years to atrophy. 

“What do you wanna do?” David asks, poking him slightly. “We could be predictable and watch It’s a Wonderful Life or something.” 

Patrick hums. “It’s not Christmas Eve.” They always saved that for Christmas Eve. 

“Close enough.” 

But Patrick is already shaking his head. “George Bailey can't suffer until December 24th." Then he sighs heavily, the kind of sigh David always imagined tiny Patrick would have made, like an audible pout. "We could play a game.” 

Oh no. “Two is not enough - ”

“For optimal gameplay, I know,” Patrick finishes. “I mean - not like a board game.” Though they have plenty here. “Like a - like a word game. A game with words.” 

David frowns. “Like Scrabble?” 

Patrick swats (and misses) at his thigh. “That has a board. No, like 20 Questions. Or Truth or Dare.” 

Now David knows, he _knows_ from brutal, personal experience that you do not get drunk with your ex. And he also knows that when you inevitably make the bad decision to drink with them anyway, you do not play games of any kind. _Especially_ Truth or fucking Dare.

He has to admit, though, he’s intrigued and his sense of self-preservation has always been faulty at best. He pokes Patrick with his toes again. “Fine, you start. Question, truth, both, whatever.” They sure as hell aren’t doing _dares_ in this weather. He'll end up naked attempting pirouettes on the frozen lake or something. 

“Crap,” Patrick murmurs with a lazy chuckle, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling. He clearly didn’t think this far ahead. He was thinking about something, though: “Did you know this was supposed to be a house?”

David snorts. Maybe they’re drunker than previously estimated. “It is a house.” 

“No, I mean.” Patrick shakes his head, but doesn’t stop staring at the ceiling. “I told you that the store had had a couple of particularly good quarters. That’s why we were able to afford the down payment for this place.” 

“Yeahhh…?” He does _not_ point out the butchering of 'particularly' because he's _nice._

Patrick huffs out a laugh. “Truth was, I’d already had the money tucked away. Almost put an offer in on a house, that little cottage you liked so much. You know, the one that...” 

David assumes Patrick keeps talking, probably something about Kate Winslet, but his ears are ringing again like he's on a bad trip. He focuses on his breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. “But - that was before we were even married.” 

“Yep,” Patrick replies, still staring at that goddamn ceiling. 

“So why didn’t you?” 

He gives a little shrug. “You went to New York.” 

It's not accusatory in the slightest, but David wonders if he'll ever stop paying the price for that. Every time he thinks his sentence is up, he's denied parole. 

“And you stayed here,” he murmurs. 

Patrick hums. “And I stayed here. Stevie said I was an idiot, but then again, she always says that.” 

Wait. “Stevie knew?!”

Patrick nods. “I swore her to secrecy. I know she was your friend first but she was my friend, too.” He pats David’s ankle and leaves his hand there. It's like a brand. “Please don’t hold it against her.”

He’s holding a lot of things against her at the moment, but he’s too busy trying to wrap his brain around this fucking bombshell first. “But she never said anything. Even after...” he gestures between the two of them. 

Patrick smiles sadly and squeezes his ankle. As if that could soften the blow. “Yeah, I asked her not to.”

 _Fuck._ He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough to see stars. Patrick rubs his thumb back and forth over his bone. 

The separation was never supposed to be permanent. David joined Alexis in New York to see if he could set up a life for them there. Meanwhile, Patrick stayed behind and ran the business they couldn’t abandon in the short term. It was supposed to be temporary, and it was, though the damage was lasting. 

“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” he whispers, and Patrick finally turns his head to look at him. 

“Hardly any of it was bad, David.” 

“And yet,” he croaks. 

Patrick sighs. He looks so sad. “And yet.” He squeezes David’s ankle again. “What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“I just went,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like he didn't just shoot a glitter cannon all over David's fine knits. “It’s your turn.” 

Ugh this is why you don’t play games with your ex. There needs to be a fucking rule book or something. 

David hums, making a show of pondering various topics by tapping his chin when really his mind is just static, but he’s just tipsy enough to remember this particular event and just desperate enough put it out there. “Did you know I stalked him once?” 

Patrick frowns. “Who?” 

David doesn’t want to say his name. “Your boyfriend.” Though that’s honestly not much better. 

Patrick snorts and sits forward, looking… honestly far too delighted considering what David just admitted. “Really?” 

“Yeah.” Now it’s his turn to stare at the ceiling. It’s a good ceiling. The wood is very shiny. “I blame Stevie.” 

“Naturally,” Patrick agrees, but David still refuses to look at him. 

“She found him on social media. So I knew what he looked like. I was coming out of Brebner's and he was going in. I may have… hidden behind a few displays. It wasn’t my proudest moment.” 

Patrick seems utterly charmed by this. “And what did he do?” 

“He bought a bouquet of flowers,” he says more brusquely than he means to as the smile slides from Patrick’s stupidly charming face. “Presumably they were for you. I stopped following him after that.” 

Patrick nods, and David can tell he’s remembering the moment. Or maybe getting flowers was so common a gesture that he has no idea which time it was. David isn’t sure which truth he prefers. 

“I have a confession to make,” Patrick murmurs, and David groans, knocking back what’s left of his wine before reaching for the bottle for a refill. 

“I assume I need this?” 

“Yeah, probably,” Patrick replies, hanging his head. His fingers still sit on David’s ankle, scorching him through the thick wool of his socks. “I, uh, I once purposefully put Date Night on the cabin calendar instead of my own. I made sure to leave it on there long enough for you to see it.”

“I remember,” David murmurs. God, does he remember. He read those words over and over, each repetition a sledge-hammer to the fragile facade he’d managed to build for himself over the past couple of years. 

“I think I wanted to hurt you the way you had hurt me.” Patrick’s breath hitches and he blinks. The shine of tears in his eyes reflects the firelight. “I think I ended up hurting myself more in the end.” 

David doesn’t realize he’s clutching the bottle of wine to his chest until Patrick makes a feeble gesture towards it. 

“May I?” 

David nods and hands it over, inhaling when their fingers brush in the exchange. “Did you love him?” 

_Jesus, Rose._ It’s not an answer he needs nor one he particularly wants, and it's certainly not one he's entitled to, but his inner glutton for punishment can’t fucking help himself. 

Patrick pours the wine, watching the rich red of the cabernet swirl around the glass. “I wanted to. I tried to.” He nods and licks his lips. His eyes are still wet. “I really tried.” 

It hurts to hear, of course it does, but the utter _relief_ he feels at knowing _like_ didn’t become _love_ is palpable. Still, David knows that Patrick struggled once before through a relationship where he tried to love someone the way they deserved to be loved and couldn't. David is glad he didn't force himself to do it again. At least this one only lasted a year instead of fifteen. 

“Hey,” David murmurs, reaching out and placing a hand on Patrick’s forearm. “I know you love to self-flagellate, but… if you didn’t love him, and you didn’t think you’d ever be _able_ to love him, then you did the right thing.” 

Patrick huffs out a laugh that contains little humor; more an abrupt release of anxiety than anything else. “Thank you, David.” 

He squeezes Patrick’s arm, feeling the strong muscle beneath, and watches the contours of his ex-husband’s face as he stares at David’s fingers, rapt. 

“You don’t wear your rings anymore.” 

David frowns and glances down as well, flexing them for a second. “Of course I don’t.” 

“No, I mean any of them.” Patrick blinks at him. “Not even the silver ones.” 

And David has neither the drunken idiocy nor the sober boldness to say that he can’t bear to wear a ring that isn’t one of the ones Patrick slipped on his finger. He has his limits. Nor can he say that he’d had the silver ones engraved with _stuck on your heart_ and he had planned to give them to him that final Christmas - a do-over of sorts. 

But then Patrick beat him to it with four words that cored the heart out of him: _“David, this isn’t working.”_

“Is there a question in there?” he breathes. At some point, this stopped being a game. If it ever was one. 

“Not if you don’t want to give an answer,” Patrick replies. David’s hand is still on his arm. Patrick’s fingers return to his ankle. 

“I didn’t fight for you,” David admits, eyes now wet as well, which could be the wine but could also just be the man in front of him: his greatest gift and his biggest regret. 

Patrick cocks his head, the crease between his brows deepening. “Did you want to?” 

David’s voice breaks when he asks, “Should I have?” 

Patrick puts his glass down before taking David’s and doing the same so he can take both of David’s hands in his own, holding tight. “It wasn’t a test, David. I wasn't trying to - to see if you loved me enough. I would never do that to you.”

“No, I know. But…” he shakes his head and clutches Patrick’s hands right back, “if I had bothered to fight for you - would you have let me?” 

Patrick exhales, his breath warm and slightly acidic from the wine on his face. “David, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I’d let you do just about anything.” 

“Anything?” He can’t help it, his eyes flick down to Patrick’s purple-stained lips. 

“Anything,” Patrick breathes, getting a hand around David’s neck and crashing their mouths together. 

It’s like coming home, like the last four years haven’t happened; the last six if he’s honest, because that’s really when it all started to fall apart. Someone groans and someone answers with a moan as Patrick's fingers skate from David's ankles up his calves, past his thighs and to his hips - a line of kerosene just waiting for a match. Before Patrick can press him back against the pillows, David kneels up on the couch as Patrick shifts to do the same, his hands slipping under David's sweater to inch up his back. Each delicate touch of a finger knocks the breath from his lungs. 

“David,” Patrick moans against his mouth before nipping at his lower lip and sucking it between his teeth. David can feel him hard against his hip and he glances down because his husband’s cock in nothing but a pair of sweatpants was always a sight to behold. 

And tonight, it does not disappoint. 

“God, Patrick,” he gasps, pushing him back and straddling his lap, grinding them together. 

Patrick nearly sobs as he gets his hands on David’s ass and hauls him closer. “Missed this,” he manages between moans and David can only nod against his cheek.

“So much.” They know this dance; they're _good_ at this dance. He tugs Patrick’s sweatshirt over his head, plunging his fingers into curls he’s been staring longingly at for 24 fucking hours. 

“Missed _you_ ,” Patrick clarifies and now it’s David’s turn to let out a sob against his shoulder. 

“Upstairs,” he manages, divesting Patrick of his t-shirt and watching as his nipples immediately peak in the cold. David dives down to lave at them with his tongue, getting a palm on his heaving chest, just over his thundering heart. God, he’s gorgeous. Time hasn’t changed that. 

“Hasn’t changed you either,” Patrick murmurs, cupping David’s face in his hands and bringing him back to his lips. 

He should feel self-conscious about saying that last bit out loud, but not once has Patrick ever made him feel self-conscious in bed. He certainly isn’t going to start now. 

Patrick gets his hands around David’s thighs and lifts him as he stands, wrapping his legs around his waist. 

“Fuck, I love it when you do that,” David gasps, pulling him in for another kiss, which proves troublesome when Patrick now can’t see where he’s walking and his knee collides with the coffee table.

He grunts into David’s mouth and slowly lowers him to the floor - disappointing but probably for the best, considering they’d bleed wine if you cut them right now. A broken bone does not need to be added to this wonderful clusterfuck of a holiday. Patrick turns to lead them up the stairs and David can’t help but press a kiss to the skin between his shoulder blades, the muscles moving as he hurries them up. They get to the loft and David tugs him back again, plastering himself against Patrick's back, his hard cock fitting perfectly snug between his cheeks. Patrick groans and slaps a hand against the wall to keep himself upright as David sinks his teeth into his shoulder and slides a hand down the front of his pants, squeezing him over his briefs.

"God, David," he whispers, head falling back on David's shoulder as he bypasses the underwear and grips him firmly, stroking slowly but steadily, getting to know the feel of him again.

Like he could forget.

He pays for his nostalgia, though, as Patrick swiftly turns in his arms and pushes him up against the wall, bullying his tongue into his mouth, which David accepts only all too willingly. After a moment that has David struggling to remember why they _ever_ stopped doing this, Patrick pulls him away from the wall more gently, walking backwards as he reaches down to cup David through his pants and grind the heel of one hand against him in a way that’s just fucking _delicious_ as he attempts to untie his joggers with the other. When he starts to lead them to the main bedroom, though, David pulls up short with a gasp which gets lost in a kiss, and he swallows Patrick’s whine as he tugs him past the door towards his own room. He just - can't. 

And the reason why fades away with every layer of clothing Patrick removes from him. 

David doesn’t think about the fact that Patrick undresses him in the same order he did as before, or that the care he takes with both his clothes and his body hasn’t changed one iota. He treats David like he’s precious, but not breakable, as evidenced by the fact that he bodily tosses him onto the bed. He falls on him a moment later, catching his weight on his (still very nice) arms so he doesn’t hurt him, hovering for just a moment. 

“Is this a mistake?” he breathes and David can still smell the wine on his breath. He knows he’s not much better. 

“Probably,” he says, even as he pulls Patrick down on top of him, grinding their hips together. They fit like they always did; like no time has passed at all. David still hooks his leg up over Patrick's thigh the way he knows he loves, and Patrick growls into his neck as he licks at the spot that causes David to make a noise like _that_.

Patrick reaches between them and uses their precum to slick them up. When that isn’t enough, he shimmies down the bed and takes David into his sloppy mouth, curling his tongue the way David loves and pressing his palm down on his belly the way he knows David needs. His thumb brushes against his hole and David's toes curl into the sheets. 

“Now, now, up here, please,” David babbles. They can slow down next time - oh.

_Next time._

He gasps for air as he tugs on Patrick's curls, blaming the suspiciously sob-like sound on Patrick's wicked tongue and not the thoughts running through his own head. He tugs again and Patrick finally releases him, making an absolutely obscene noise that David is definitely filing away for further use. Why the fuck couldn’t he have grown his hair out before? 

He spreads his legs and Patrick settles in between them, getting his hand around them both and whimpering against David’s temple as David mouths at his ear. 

He’s missed this, missed _him_ so much, he feels like a broken piece of himself has just been forged back together. 

“Patrick,” he whispers, breath hitching as Patrick strokes them deftly. 

“I have you, baby,” he replies, his own voice rough. “I always have you.”

David pretends that the drop of water he feels fall onto his shoulder is sweat, but he knows it’s not. 

And he has just enough alcohol in his system not to want to unpack that tonight. 

Because then he’d have to answer why his own cheeks aren’t exactly dry and why his fingers are digging just a little too hard into the tender skin of his ex-husband’s back.

❄✨ _December 24th_ ✨❄

The sheets are cold, his head is pounding, and self-loathing pins him to the mattress. He’s certainly felt this particular cocktail of regret before but not in a very, _very_ long time. 

He knows what he’s going to find when he eventually blinks his eyes open, but the disappointment is still sharp and lingering when he does and Patrick is nowhere to be seen. 

The thing is: David doesn’t even have the heart to blame him. 

If he was any sort of morning person, he probably would have made his escape, too. 

He’s still naked, but relatively clean. He doesn’t remember much after coming, but Patrick must have had enough brain function left to tidy them up before passing out himself. Which is… appreciated. Being crusty in the morning is never a good look. But maybe Patrick didn’t stay the night at all, which makes David ache in a way he doesn’t appreciate. The indentation on the pillow tells a different story, however. Patrick _was_ here - long enough for the sheets to smell like him; David buries his face in the pillow just to be sure.

How long he’s been gone, though, is another matter. 

He pushes the covers back, feeling sluggish and guilty and _parched,_ so of course there’s a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen left for him on the bedside table. He’d be angry if he wasn’t so goddamn grateful. He downs the pills and chugs the drink, taking a moment to organize, to categorize, to… catastrophize. The throbbing in his head keeps him from doing any sort of productive meditation, though, so he’ll have to settle for just taking a couple of deep breaths. 

Deciding he can face Patrick after a very long, hot shower, he disappears into the shared bathroom and presses his forehead against the tile as the water pounds at his back. 

He slept with his ex-husband. 

The man he used to be married to. His partner in business and in life. 

And try as he might, he can’t shake the feel of Patrick on him and around him, holding him and taking him apart the way only he knows how. 

And now he’s gone. Home, if he had any sense. He escaped this hot mess once; David can’t imagine he wouldn’t try to do it again, if given the opportunity. He's not the first, and God knows he won't be the last. 

He dresses slowly, trying not to upend the careful ceasefire his head has negotiated with the rest of his body. He’s certainly been wine drunk before (when with Stevie, it’s practically a requirement), but it truly is a special kind of dehydration no doubt designed for people destined for the seventh circle of hell. 

Exiting the bedroom in socked feet and clutching his phone in his hand, he glances over the railing hesitantly, listening for any sort of sound, but nothing comes. The fire isn’t even lit, which is perhaps the biggest clue that Patrick really isn’t here. 

He tells himself the feeling in the pit of his gut isn’t disappointment, but he practically has a Masters in denial. Regardless, whatever it is weighs down his steps as he makes his way to the living room, the space cold and dark in a way that not even the large windows can brighten. Not with the snow still coming down like it is. 

He tiptoes around, despite the fact that the wool makes no sound, and pokes his head into the kitchen. There’s a fresh-brewed pot of coffee so maybe Patrick didn’t go far after all. 

As if summoned by the Ghost of Christmas Fucking Past himself, the front door opens and David whirls around to find Patrick standing there, holding a shovel that he rests just to the side, before stomping out his boots and stepping into cabin. He pulls his toque off and shuts the door, leaning forward to unlace his shoes before catching sight of David halfway down.

“Oh, hi,” he says as he straightens, his flushed face going soft and gooey in a way that does the same to David’s insides. It’s too early for that. He gestures back behind him, to the unseen driveway. His jeans are damp from the snow and he’s wearing the hoodie that David still loves to steal. “I saw it was still coming down when I woke up, so I wanted to make some headway.”

“In case you needed to make a quick getaway?” he blurts, because he’s still David Rose, despite the passage of time and transformational heartbreak.

Patrick narrows his eyes and doesn’t justify that with a response. He knows David too well by now. _Has_ known him ever since David walked into the store on one of the best mornings of his life and asked, _“Regrets?”_

“Just a habit to ask?” Patrick replies with a wry smile that contains a layer of hurt anyone could see if they knew him as well as David does. He swallows hard, and David watches as the careful optimism slowly slides from his face. 

“Something like that,” he murmurs. He’s never felt like this with Patrick before, this uncertainty, even at the beginning of their relationship. 

Actually, that’s not true. He felt it when he first returned from New York and things didn’t immediately go back to the way they had been before. It was the first time he had the horrible, axis-tilting realization that perhaps this wasn’t salvageable. He’d heard that sometimes love wasn’t enough - 

But he didn’t actually listen until that moment; he didn't _believe_ until he came back a different person to another different person, each expecting the other to look at him the same. 

Patrick starts to step forward before realizing he’s still in his boots and so he keeps to the mat because he knows his audience. “David, I - ” But whatever he was about to say gets cut off by the ring of David’s phone. 

_Motherfucker._

He looks down at it as if it’s a foreign entity, like one of Patrick’s massive calculators. Or an Android. His sister’s name flashes across the screen with an incoming FaceTime call. 

“It’s Alexis,” he finds himself murmuring, and he vaguely wonders if his face is doing the Thing. Patrick’s is doing enough on its own to drive him to distraction. 

Patrick gets his boots undone and moves past him. “Answer the phone, David,” he murmurs. “Say hi to your sister.” 

David’s mouth opens and closes, but his tongue is held hostage and the plea for Patrick to stay never leaves his lips. Patrick turns back and David wishes he hadn't because his expression is the same as it was that awful day when four words upended David's world: _"David, this isn't working."_

“She won’t know I’m here,” he promises softly, and David watches the taught line of his back until he disappears into the kitchen, not hitting **Accept** until Patrick is safely hidden, well out of sight. 

“What do you want?” he snaps when the call connects. Her pout is clear even with the cabin’s shitty wifi. 

“Rude, David. It’s Christmas Eve.” 

“And?” 

“Ugh if I had known you were going to be such a Scrooge, I would have left you to wander around in your nightgown alone.” 

Oh my God, he’s not _Dad._

“Alexis, what do you want?” he asks with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. His headache is coming back. 

She huffs out a breath and makes a show of playing with the zipper on what is clearly a garish one-piece holiday ensemble. Ted’s idea, no doubt. But when she next speaks, her voice is softer. “I just wanted to say that if you change your mind about New Year's, there are still flights available for the 30th. I checked.”

That’s… 

He misses her, he does. But New York does not have the same pull it once did. His misplaced desire to prove to everyone he’d won only made him lose. More than he ever thought possible. 

“You know I can’t do that.” 

“I just feel so bad, David, thinking of you up in that cabin all alone. In the place you and Patrick shared. It’s just - very masochistic and not a good look for you.” 

“Okay,” he says overly loud, turning his back to the kitchen, but it’s a wooden fucking cabin - of course sound carries. “Is there a point to this?” he snaps and Alexis glares. 

“You mean other than trying to get you out of your four year funk? No, David. There’s no point. Choke on a candy cane.” 

“Drink expired eggnog!” He jabs the **End Call** button and paces to the stairs and back, to the stairs and back. On his third pass, he glances up to find Patrick leaning in the doorway, the look on his face indecipherable. 

“Why aren’t you there, David?” he asks softly after a moment. 

“Why are _you_ here?” he quickly rebuts. He’s feeling raw and vulnerable and far too easy to read. At least for someone like his perceptive ex-husband. “If you aren’t torn up about Ryan, then why aren’t you with your parents right now?” 

Patrick remains quiet for a while, long enough that David isn’t entirely sure he plans on answering. Eventually, though, he sighs, and it’s the kind of sigh that tells David his life is about to shift into Before and After. 

Again. 

“I’m not there because I realized that this December means that we’ve been divorced longer than we were married. And I just - I couldn’t handle that.” He nods and stares at the floor, looking entirely too… broken. Patrick shouldn’t look like that. That’s David’s job. “And I didn’t want to put my parents through what was sure to be a rather depressing holiday. So.” His broad shoulders rise and fall, a gesture entirely too casual considering he just took a hammer to the bandaged remains of David's shattered heart. 

They’ve been divorced longer than they were married.

He knew they’d get there eventually, but - but David feels like he signed those papers _yesterday_. The pain is still too acute, the bone is still broken. He was supposed to be numb by now, but he doesn’t even have the cast on yet. 

“Why didn’t you take the main room?” Patrick asks, staring at him once more. “And why did you not want to go in there last night? I know you think I didn't notice that, but I did.” 

Damn. David had hoped that the heat of the moment would melt away the tracks in the snow, but... He shakes his head and then gives a shrug of his own, because if Patrick can do it in the face of a truth he never wanted to reveal, then so can David: “Because I can’t be in a bed knowing you’ve shared it with someone else.” 

Patrick frowns and drifts closer, looking genuinely confused. “What?” 

David rolls his eyes, because _come on_. “Ryan,” he spits, though if there are more, he’d really rather not know. 

Patrick is still frowning, though the confusion clears. Which is terrible because it gives way to something tender and sympathetic that David would really rather not see. “David, Ryan has never set foot in this cabin.” 

Wait, that’s not - 

That’s -

“... What?!” He shakes his head because _surely_ Patrick would have brought his boyfriend of approximately a year give or take to his rustic, romantic cabin in the woods. They’re one hot tub away from a cliche. “Why the hell not?!”

Patrick would almost look amused if he didn’t look so fucking heartbroken. 

“David, we bought this place together. It’s my space _and_ it’s yours. Ours,” he states clearly, and David doesn’t know how he can just say something like that so easily. ‘Ours.’ “Have _you_ ever brought anyone here?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why is it so ridiculous to think I wouldn’t either?”

“Because you’re the one who walked away!” he yells, and oh wow, he doesn’t know how long that’s been waiting to come out but clearly it had waited as long as it possibly could. 

Patrick looks like he’s been punched. But he’s not too dazed to say, “But, David, who opened the door?”

Silence. Terrible, suffocating, censorious silence. 

David reaches a hand out for the nearest sturdy surface; it might be the railing and it might be the mantle, but what does it matter when he can’t refute a single goddamn word?

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Stay upright._

Patrick must mistake his quiet for either agreement or dissent instead of the indictment it is because he just keeps _talking_ ; he just keeps _saying_ these _things_ like it takes no effort at all. Like it doesn’t flay David’s skin down past organ and matter to the fragile bone beneath. 

“Look, David, the fact of the matter is… Ryan had one insurmountable flaw.” 

He doesn’t want to hear this - 

“He wasn’t you.” 

On second thought, maybe he does. 

Patrick inhales like he needs every bit of his breath to get through this. “I tried really, _really_ hard, but… turns out it’s impossible to love a person when you’re still irrevocably in love with someone else. And I will forever and always be in love with you, David Rose.” He gives that same little shrug; that sad little gesture that manages to suck the strength from David’s knees. “So no, he’s never been here. And to be perfectly honest, I don’t think anyone else will be either.” 

“Patrick…” 

… loves him. He _loves_ him. It’s everything his battered heart has wanted to hear since he looked at a stack of papers dividing their assets and wondered how a love like theirs could somehow be broken down into bullet points. 

But what comes next? What does he say? He could return the favor. He could declare he loves him, too, because it’s a fact as true and predictable as the rising of the sun -

But it’s too much. 

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Stay. Upright._

So David does what he does best. 

He runs. 

❄✨❄

Snow is sneaking under his collar, his hair is deflating, and his teeth are chattering so hard, he may need to invest in veneers. He isn’t even wearing his own boots. Luckily, his ex-husband has surprisingly large feet. 

David tries to go through a few breathing exercises but he’s too cold to focus; his lungs are too tight to fully function and his diaphragm gave up ages ago. Frankly, he deserves to have his bits frozen off. He deserves to have his balls shrivel up and his cock turn inside out. It’s the _only_ explanation for why his natural inclination when faced with quite possibly the most romantic speech his ears have ever heard was to head to the fucking lake, of all places, to throw it all away. 

He sits on the large rock at the edge of the bank, preferring not to be in one of the adirondack chairs out at the end of the dock. Too open, too… exposed, for the penance he's trying to pay. 

They say time heals all wounds but what about fatal ones? Because losing Patrick Brewer not once but twice seems like the kind of thing you don’t bounce back from.

And he finds, in his… moment of need… that he doesn’t necessarily want to be alone. 

Ugh, fuck. 

He pulls out his phone and hits her name, cursing under his breath as he raises it to his ear. She picks up after the third ring.

“What, have you just called to be a little b again?” 

He pulls the phone away and presses it to his forehead, before biting his lip and swallowing his pride. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, shockingly meaning it, and he can hear the shift in her demeanor. The way she straightens and her air of indifference falls away. 

“Okay,” she replies, still hesitant. “I assume that, like, hidden cameras aren’t about to jump out of the bushes - Ashton gave that up ages ago. So… what’s going on with you?”

He swallows. “I’m at the cabin.”

“I’m well aware.”

“I’m not alone.”

“... what?” she asks. “What does that mean? Like, you’re with your thoughts?”

Alone has been his default for so long, she can’t even imagine him in the presence of another human being. Though, in her defense, being alone with nothing but thoughts for company is apparently what people do at cabins, if Interflix Christmas movies are to be believed. 

“No.” He tries to make his tongue work. “Patrick showed up.”

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “On purpose?”

He lets out a choked laugh. “It was my fault.”

“Obviously, but why?”

He sighs again and looks out over the frozen lake. “I misread the calendar.”

She hums. “Did you, David? Did you _really_?”

“Yes!” he chirps indignantly. 

She makes a noise that basically says, _I’ll be the judge of that_ and he’d fucking throttle her if she wasn’t a customs checkpoint away. 

“He said he loves me,” he admits, letting those words, those beautiful, unbelievable words, just - hover out there in the ether. 

“Oh,” she breathes. “Are you… okay?”

He laughs out a sob, his tears freezing on his face. “Do I sound okay?” 

“David,” she begins, so softly; too softly for him to handle when he’s already frozen solid and one tap could send him to pieces, “this is what you want. It’s why you went back to the middle of rural Canada instead of being a boss bitch with me in the city.” 

Well, not exactly his choice of words, but she’s not wrong. 

“It’s why you spent five years of your life being annoyingly, incandescently happy. Like, _disgustingly_ jubilant. Seriously, David, it was gross.” 

He can’t help but laugh and she hums again at her victory. 

“Yeah,” he manages. 

“So,” she clips, and he can almost hear her tapping the phone in place of his nose to punctuate her words, “why the hell are you talking to me?” 

He shakes his head, knowing full well she can’t see him and dislodging the snow that had gathered in his hair. “Because I’m scared,” he finally admits. 

And then, in a rare moment of unguarded brilliance, she asks, “To lose him? Or to not try again at all?” 

And he really doesn’t have anything to say to that because what would it be? Both, if he was honest with himself, but David hasn’t been that in entirely too long. 

“You’ve punished yourself enough,” Alexis murmurs. “Let yourself be happy.”

_“David, could you just once embrace joy?”_

His sister and his mother are more alike than they’d ever admit outside of therapy. 

“Do you think you can do that?” she asks. 

He wants to scoff because _no,_ of _course_ he can’t. But Patrick could make him happy. If David let him, Patrick could light up his world. He knows that one of them will have to be brave, and frankly, he’s never been labeled the type. Patrick, though - Patrick can be brave. 

He already has been. Maybe David just needs to give him another chance. Or perhaps, by this point, it’s the other way around. 

“Kay, I can practically smell your brain working all the way from Manhattan, so I’m gonna let you go.” 

“Choke on a pine cone,” he snips, but he’s smiling.

“I hope your tree electrocutes you,” she replies, equally cheerful. 

He turns his face to the sky and closes his eyes, letting the fat flakes catch in his lashes. “Thank you, Alexis.” 

Her pleased little shimmy is audible down the line. “Love you.” 

“Love you, too.” 

“Go get ‘em.” 

“Ugh.” He hangs up but stares at the screen long after it goes dark, reflecting his haggard but hesitantly happy face back to him. 

Stuffing his phone in his pocket, he trudges back to the cabin as fast as his body will carry him in at least two feet of snow. He knows he mocks the importance of ‘leg day’ but he’s currently seeing the appeal, brief though it may be.

By the time he reaches the door, he sounds like a chainsmoker puffing through emphysema, but he plows onward, like his mother before him when she went up on her lines in the My Fair Lady Off-Off-Broadway revival and relocated the rain in Spain to Lake Champlain. He bursts inside and is met with... silence. 

It never occurs to him that Patrick might not be waiting. 

Shaking off what has to be the entirety of the Frozen on Ice snow budget, he gets his boots off and hangs up his coat, hearing a thud followed by a thump coming from the loft. He takes the stairs carefully, both in deference to his socked feet that never seem to find their grip on this damn floor, and to the monumental moment he might be about to have. 

He appears in the doorway of the main room to find Patrick folding up a sweater. As monumental moments go, it's rather lacking.

“Hey,” he greets, and Patrick glances briefly over his shoulder but turns back to pull another shirt onto the pile. 

“Hey.” 

Only then does David notice the pile is next to an open and rapidly filling duffle bag. Panic races through him like someone just shot adrenaline into his veins. 

“What - what are you doing?” 

Patrick puts the last shirt in followed by his Dopp kit and quickly zips it closed. “I’m gonna head out. Get out of your way. I think my car can handle the roads.”

David has a brief but brutal image of Patrick’s SUV careening into a tree. 

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, but Patrick only offers a tight smile as he passes him, not quite meeting his eyes. 

“It’s fine, David,” he says as he heads down the stairs. “You take the cabin. In fact…” He stops by the door and drops his chin to his chest, shoulders slumping. David watches his back rise and fall with a heavy breath. “Maybe, after the holidays, we can draw up paperwork to amend the deed.” He finally turns and the look in his eyes is… Jesus, it’s fucking awful. “It’s yours. If you want it.”

 _No,_ he wants to say. No, this isn’t how any of this was supposed to go. Patrick is the brave one, not David. He’s said it himself, he’s not the one who fights. 

But then he’s reminded of how sliding on the floor, lip-syncing his fucking heart out to Tina Turner can be its own act of courage. 

So maybe, just maybe, David Rose can be brave, too. 

“You told me last night you’d have let me fight for you,” he starts, stepping forward and just barely resisting the urge to grab Patrick’s bag from his hand. “I’m - I’m doing that now. Let me do that now. Patrick, _please_!” 

The grip of the panic isn’t receding. In fact, it’s only tightening, cutting off blood flow to his brain, making his vision blur and his ears ring. 

“I just - I just needed a minute,” he pleads, gesturing to the door that Patrick is so close to walking through. “Just… give me a chance,” his voice trails off in a whisper, his throat closing up. “One more chance…” 

“David.” Patrick sounds like he’s in a tunnel, and David isn’t entirely sure his legs are going to keep holding him. “David, listen to me.” 

He’s hyperventilating - he’s doing the thing his doctor told him not to do, but he can’t fucking _meditate_ when his thoughts are filled with _Patrick loves me Patrick is leaving me Patrick is lost to me._

“Breathe with me, baby,” the voice says, pulling him back from the brink. It cuts through the noise, but gently, calmly; a cupped palm dipping down to gather water. “That’s it, David. Just breathe.” 

He’s not sure when he ended up on the floor, but Patrick has him pulled against his chest and bracketed between his legs, hand spread across his sternum, measuring his breaths with the steady press of his palm. 

"Breathe, baby," he quietly commands against the shell of his ear, his lips tickling the sensitive skin. 

“Patrick?” 

“I’m here,” he whispers, grazing the stubble of his cheek across David’s. His palm is firm on David's chest, holding him together.

Holding _them_ together. 

“I love you,” he says, because he can’t go another minute without Patrick knowing. "I've always loved you." 

Patrick’s next exhale is an uneven shudder, his breath hot and wet as he buries his face in his neck. “I love you, too, David. So much.” 

“Don’t leave me.” It’s pathetic, but he’s earned the right. And he needs to know.

It’s only when Patrick promises, “Never,” that he’s even close to being appeased. 

They stay there long enough for his back to hurt and his ass to go numb. He can’t even imagine how Patrick feels, what with David using him as a chaise lounge in a Titian painting. 

The panic attack made him sweat through his sweater and the collar is cold and damp against his neck. David whines when Patrick starts to shift out from behind him, and Patrick’s lips are quick to find his ear. 

“Easy, easy. I’m just gonna build a fire. Gettin’ cold.”

He’s not wrong, so David will allow it, though he does make grabby hands any time Patrick gets remotely within reach. With much fanfare, but minimal actual fuss, they relocate to the couch, and Patrick turns on the lights on the tree, scattering white constellations across the stone and wooden walls. Stoking the fire a final time, he heads back to the couch, and David leans forward so Patrick can slot in behind his back, taking him in his arms once more. 

Quiet falls, and it’s the first peace David’s known in five years. 

Patrick’s arms are warm and tight around his torso, and David’s head is pillowed on his shoulder. He’s feeling so delightfully, wonderfully _safe_ , which is probably why it takes him a moment to register what Patrick just said: 

“You really didn’t know I was going to be here?” 

David blinks his eyes open and cranes his neck, fixing his ex-husband with a look of utter incredulity. “I most certainly did not. Was the fact that I broke my favorite mug not evidence enough?” 

Patrick’s chuckle is low and rumbly against his ear. “Yeah, that seemed like too much commitment to the role.” 

David hums. “We can’t all be Moira Rose.” 

“Thank God for that.” 

“Unclear on Stevie, though.” 

Patrick nuzzles the spot just over David’s pulse point that never fails to send a shiver zinging down his spine. “Hm?” 

“Stevie. I assume you told her you were coming, right?” 

Patrick hums again. “I did.” Then he goes still. “Does it bother you that Stevie and I still talk?” 

“No,” David replies truthfully. “Honestly, it was… kind of nice knowing that I still sort of had a connection to you through her. Not that she ever told me anything.” He gestures around them. “Exhibit fucking A.” 

Patrick goes still behind him. “Wait, she knew you were coming here?” 

“Yes!” 

“That little…” but Patrick trails off, because he is nothing if not a gentleman where his friends are concerned. 

David, however, is not so burdened by niceties. He grabs his phone from the table and pulls up his thread with Stevie, giving her a final chance to come clean about her role as a deranged elf in this particular fucking Christmas miracle. 

**_Did you know?_ **

He _knows_ he doesn’t need to clarify. Her response, though… well, her response might have him sending her a case of wine anyway. 

**[Stevie]**   
**I still like this for you.**

He wants to write back something along the lines of **_You bitch_ ** or **_Fuck with your own life_ ** but he refrains. Barely. 

**_You’re the worst_** he says instead, knowing she can read the love in between the lines. 

**[Stevie]**   
**Tell him I said hi. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.**

He laughs and it’s wet, but then Patrick presses a kiss to his shoulder followed by his neck, warming every place his lips touch. 

**_Merry Christmas._ **

He follows it up with a picture of the tree, making sure to capture both of their socked feet propped up on the table. He wants to save it as his wallpaper, too, but maybe - maybe let’s see where the night takes them. 

Patrick sighs against his hair, a deep, contented thing, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be for Christmas Eve. So David does what his mom told him to all those years ago: 

He leans back in the arms of the man he loves and embraces joy. 

Joy is interrupted, though, when his stomach gives a traitorous growl, loud enough to have Patrick laughing into his nape and sliding his hands up David’s sweater to rub circles on his belly.

“We haven’t eaten much today, have we.” 

Nothing. They’ve eaten nothing. Not that David had much appetite anyway. Grief is more effective than any diet pill. 

But David’s stomach gives his answer for him, drawing another laugh from Patrick that rumbles against David’s back. 

“Stay here. I’ll go heat up some chili.” He slides out and pads to the kitchen, but not before pressing a kiss to David’s head as he goes. Such a tiny, habitual thing to have David swooning like a Victorian maiden. 

He glances at the stockings hanging over the fire, and then back towards the window where the snow has slowed but definitely not stopped. It’s certainly not the first time the thought has crossed his mind - he’s imagined the scenario so many times - but this might be the first time he’s only felt the paralyzing fear of a potentially positive outcome instead of the regretful devastation he usually does.

Glancing at Patrick puttering about the kitchen and humming a song that sounds vaguely like ‘Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)’, David makes a decision and quickly stuffs his feet back into Patrick’s boots, tossing his coat over his shoulders as he hurries out to his car to grab the box that’s been sitting in his center console for far longer than he’d care to admit. 

In his haste, he nearly falls twice on his way back in, but he still manages to slip the package into Patrick’s stocking, refusing to let himself change his mind before Patrick comes back in with the bowls. 

“Did you go outside?” Patrick asks, pressing his lips to David’s cheek. “You’re cold.” 

“Had to get a charger from the car,” he blurts because it’s the only thing that comes to mind. 

Patrick pulls away with a fond smile. “I have extras.” 

“Of course you do.”

“Well, you never remembered yours. It was a habit I could never seem to break.” He pecks David on the lips and murmurs, “Not that I really tried.” Then he pulls out his phone and clicks shuffle on a Christmas playlist that starts from the bluetooth speaker on the side table. 

Coincidentally, Darlene Love’s ‘Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)’ is first up. Fitting, really, since David finally feels like he is. 

They eat in comfortable silence, nudging their socked feet back and forth, bopping along to the music, until their bowls are clean. David takes them to the kitchen and washes them in the sink -

Until Frank Sinatra’s voice, and only Frank Sinatra’s voice, no music, no anything, filters in from the living room. David turns off the water and just listens. 

_“Have yourself a Merry little Christmas, let your heart be light…”_

He finds himself wandering back over to the doorway and leaning against the jamb, watching light dance across Patrick’s pale face as he tips his head back against the couch, a small smile on his face, and just listens. 

He’s… stunning. 

Is it normal for one song to make you feel such hope and heartbreak? Is it normal for one person to make you feel the same? 

With every minute that ticks by, though, hope is winning out. 

“I love this version,” Patrick murmurs, and David looks up to find him watching him carefully. “You should call your sister.” Right, the last conversation he overhead was the earlier FaceTime. Not exactly how you want to leave things on Christmas Eve. 

“Oh, we, uh, we spoke earlier. When I was outside.” 

“Ah.” Patrick holds out his hand and beckons him closer. David isn’t an idiot, so he goes. “And how is my dear sister-in-law?” he asks as he tugs him down to the couch. 

David grins, echoing his words back when he asked about Marcy and Clint. “Missing you.” Which is why he picks up his phone again and pulls up her text thread, because she would want to know. 

**_Don’t think I’m gonna make that flight._ **

She replies quickly with a picture of all the people he loves in (dear God) matching Christmas onesies, piled high on Alexis’ incorrect couch, throwing various faces and peace signs at the phone. 

**[Alexis]**   
**No room for you anyway. ❤️**

Patrick snorts over his shoulder as he sees the text, before taking David’s phone from his hand and snapping a sleepy soft selfie of them both. 

**_Next year._ ** he types, showing it to David for approval before he hits Send. 

David swallows through a tight throat and nods. “Next year,” he whispers. Because he gets to have this now. 

They both do, if they try; if they fight. If they're brave. 

He stares at the stocking again, the weight of the box stretching it out slightly more than its partner, before the phone buzzes in Patrick’s hand once more.

**[Alexis]**   
**BUTTON. Yay, David, Yay!!!!!**

“Man, I miss her,” Patrick chuckles and David hums. 

“Well, she always did prefer you to me, so trust that the feeling is mutual,” he says through a yawn. 

“Tired?” 

He shrugs. “A little.” It’s so early, you’d think they were kids being forced to go to bed for Santa. Not that David and Alexis ever had to, but he’s seen enough movies. 

_“Through the years we all will be together_   
_If the fates allow...”_

His eyes go to the stocking again and he inhales. 

_“Hang a shining star upon the highest bough…”_

David Rose can be brave, too. 

_“And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”_

“I have something for you,” he murmurs before he can even really think about it. Before he can contemplate the multitude of ways this could blow up in his face. 

But Patrick’s arms are strong around his body and his breath is warm against his neck, and David Rose can do anything as long as this man is by his side. 

Patrick leans back and stares at him with an amused frown. “But you didn’t know I was gonna be here. I didn’t bring anything for you.” 

“Well, _technically_ I didn’t bring this. It’s just - been in my car for a while. It’s not much. It’s not even wrapped,” he rambles. 

“But it’s not Christmas yet,” Patrick says with a teasing smile because he’s the worst. 

David clears his throat. “If I recall, it’s a Brewer family tradition to do stockings on Christmas Eve.” Then he nods his head at the fireplace and Patrick follows his gaze, quickly ascertaining that at some point in the evening, someone slipped something in the handcrafted knit with his name on it. 

Taking David’s hand to place a kiss on his knuckles and then tug him to his feet, Patrick pads over to the mantle, David in his wake, before gently plucking the stocking off its hook and giving David a slightly scolding look. 

“You really didn’t have to do this, David.” 

“No,” he murmurs, a secret, scared smile on his face. “I really did.” 

Patrick reaches in, brow creasing as his fingers meet the package, and David holds his breath as he pulls out a familiar black box. His expression twists in confusion for a moment before the truth of all slams into him at once and he gasps. “David…” 

“You don’t have to wear them. Or, or even keep them. But… you asked why I don’t wear my silver rings.” 

Patrick’s throat clicks as he works to swallow, carefully opening the box with trembling fingers and bringing a hand to his mouth when the light from the fire catches four familiar bands.

"Because they aren't mine anymore." 

Patrick's shoulders are shaking so David takes hold of them, firmly rubbing his palms up and down like he’s the only thing keeping Patrick together. 

“They haven't been for a while. I was going to give them to you that last Christmas. But then everything fell apart, so I’ve just been… carrying them with me.” 

Patrick lets out a noise that punches straight through David's chest, so he moves his hands from his shoulders to his face, pressing a fierce kiss to his forehead. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Patrick manages, voice wrecked. 

“I didn’t know how,” he replies, breath hitching as well. “I just - ” _didn’t fight_ , “didn’t know how.” 

Patrick runs his thumb over the engravings and looks up at David with tears spilling onto his cheeks. “I’m stuck on yours, too.” He gives a little shrug, “Always have been.” 

David nods, pressing their foreheads together. “Always will be.” 

Then Patrick holds out his left hand and allows David to slide them on, one by one by one by one. He examines them once more in the firelight, before hooking them around David’s neck and bringing their lips together in a kiss that’s half apology, half promise. 

David loses himself to this feeling; the feeling of bliss, of safety, of fucking _relief_ , leaning all of his weight on him and knowing that Patrick will not let him fall.

Patrick pulls away and David chases him, so he pecks one last kiss to his lips before taking his hand and wordlessly leading him up the stairs. He starts towards David’s room - or, the room David slept in because it will never actually feel like _his_ \- but David stops him and tugs him to theirs. 

Patrick stares at him for a moment, seeing the gesture for what it is - one of trust and commitment and love, and kisses him again so hard, David is genuinely worried he’s going to taste blood. 

_Worth it._

Their room still smells the same, like lavender and cedar and the store’s sandalwood soap, and David takes more comfort from that than he initially thought possible. He’d had so many nightmares of coming here one weekend and smelling another man’s cologne in the air. That Patrick didn’t even contemplate bringing someone else into their space causes the breath to stutter in his chest again. Patrick’s hand comes down over his heart and presses firmly, like he knows. 

Their clothes come off in that same gentle pattern, and Patrick takes just as much care with David’s cotton loungewear as he does with his precious knits. David’s lips are swollen and his cock is hard as Patrick kneels down and nuzzles his crotch, dragging his nose along the firm line of David through his briefs and breathing hotly against the damp spot. 

“Patrick…” He threads his fingers through those curls again and gives a gentle tug. Patrick groans against him, making him twitch, before pressing a soft kiss to the tip, hooking his fingers in the waistband, and dragging the underwear down his legs. David springs free and he whimpers, holding onto Patrick’s shoulders as Patrick quickly takes him in hand and works him just the way David loves. “Jesus,” he groans, head tilting back towards the ceiling. “You. You next.” 

Patrick presses a sloppy kiss to his cock, sucking softly, before standing up and letting David have at him. It’s not nearly as slow or as graceful as the time and care Patrick took to disrobe him, but David passed ‘desperate’ somewhere between the top step and the bedroom door. He shoves Patrick briefs down his thighs and he has to bite his lip to keep from sinking his teeth into the firm muscle. 

“How…” he starts, “how…” he says, trying and failing again. Luckily, Patrick knows what he’s asking. 

“You in me,” he says gruffly, pulling David against him and moaning as they press together top to toe. 

“You sure?” 

“David, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he replies, tugging David towards the bed and gently pushing him down. 

David scoots back against the headboard as Patrick crawls towards him (a sight he has _missed_ , to be sure), before straddling his thighs and leaning over to reach for the lube in the bedside table, right where they’ve always kept it. He snags a condom as well, which saves them from a somewhat awkward conversation. 

He and Patrick had mostly stopped using condoms before they were even married, except for when they didn’t want to deal with cleanup, but David knows neither of them has been celibate since. Patrick had Ryan (and possibly others) and David had some mistakes from The Wobbly Elm. 

Patrick studies the foil packet before letting out a relieved groan. “Thank God, not expired.” 

David laughs at his enthusiasm (which he _fully_ shares), before turning a little serious and running his hands up and down Patrick’s thighs. “Were you careful?” he asks, because he can’t help it. And it’s not even himself he’s concerned for.

Patrick looks up from the bottle of lube whose cap he’s currently wrestling with and leans forward, pressing a hard and lingering kiss to David’s lip. “Always,” he whispers against his mouth. 

David swallows hard and nods. “Good.” He swallows again, “Me too.” 

Patrick kisses him more softly this time. “Good.” Then he presses the lube into David’s hand. “Get me ready.” 

David slicks a finger and reaches beneath Patrick’s spread legs. Patrick braces himself on the headboard and presses small kisses all over every part of David he can reach. He takes one like a champ and two like a pro. He inhales sharply at three, and David eases him with a hand on his hip, rubbing careful circles until Patrick’s rim relaxes around him once more. 

“I have you, honey,” he whispers, and Patrick nods against his cheek. 

“I know you do.” 

“You ready?” he asks, pressing a kiss to his shaking shoulder, and Patrick leans back, finally giving David a good look at his face. His eyes are red and his cheeks are wet, but he’s so, _so_ goddamn happy. He looks down at his rings and runs them gently across David’s cheek, the silver skin-warm and glinting. 

“Ready,” he replies, and David knows he means for more than just tonight.

Patrick rolls the condom on him and shifts into position. He braces himself on David’s shoulders as David carefully helps him lower down with a hand on his hip and one on his cock. Patrick gasps at the first breech, a whimper giving way to a guttural groan when he’s finally flush against David’s thighs. 

God, he’s missed this. And not even the sex. He’s missed the intimacy. He’s missed being so connected to one person that looking into their eyes feels like being known. 

No one will ever know David Rose like Patrick Brewer. 

Which is why when Patrick says, “I’ll never leave you again,” David feels the truth of it down in the marrow of his bones. 

❄✨ _December 25th_ ✨❄

He feels the sun on his face and the steady breath of the man he loves against his neck before he even opens his eyes. He brings his hand up and threads it through Patrick’s hair where his head is pillowed on David’s chest, humming as he pulls a satisfied (and adorable) snuffle from his… well, his - his ex-husband. His something. 

His everything. 

There’s work to do, though, David knows that. Four years of pain doesn’t just go away in four days of bliss, but… Patrick knows it, too. They’ve each been working on themselves, which is why they can work together on them. So, no, it’s not perfect, but it’s a start. 

And what a day to begin.

“Honey,” he murmurs, and Patrick grunts. “It’s Christmas.” 

“Already have everything I need,” is Patrick’s sleepy reply, wrapping his arms and legs around him tighter, and David has to bite back a too-loud laugh for such a quiet morning. 

“That was the worst fucking line I’ve ever heard and I once cameoed in a Hallmark movie.” 

But Patrick just burrows further into him, his silver rings cool against his skin where he’s clutching David’s ribs. 

Eventually, the pull of coffee is too much and they throw on clothes and pad downstairs. According to the calendar, which David has now looked at _multiple_ times, Patrick is only staying through tomorrow. David was going to drive back tonight to work Boxing Day, but he’s not sure the snow would allow it anyway. Mandy wants as many hours as possible on her winter break, so maybe he can convince Jocelyn to help her out if David can’t. Hell, if he tells her _why_ he needs more time, she’d probably donate her services. 

He’s just plugging in the tree and admiring the view as Patrick bends over to build the fire when Patrick’s phone rings on the coffee table with an incoming FaceTime call. Patrick wipes his hands as he walks over and picks it up. 

“It’s my parents…” he murmurs. 

“Oh. Do you want me to…?” David gestures behind him towards the kitchen, but Patrick’s hand comes down on his arm. 

“Don’t go far.” He sits on the couch so David hovers a little awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure of where to go or what to do, exactly. 

Patrick accepts the call and Marcy and Clint’s voices chorus out a bright, “Merry Christmas!” 

He laughs and says, “Merry Christmas” in reply. 

“Are you having a nice time?” Marcy asks, and she sounds so worried. David learned her tones long ago. 

“I’m good, Mom,” Patrick nods and smiles, eyes flicking to David briefly. “Really good.” 

“That tree stand still working out for you?” Clint asks, and Patrick gestures to the corner with his left hand, tilting the phone so they can see. 

“So far, so good -”

“Sweetheart, what are those?” Marcy interrupts, and David watches Patrick glance down at the rings. The corner of his mouth tugs to the side and, God, David just wants to put his lips there. 

“These?” Patrick asks, flexing his fingers, and David knows he didn’t have to point out the decorations with that hand. In fact, David _knows_ he prefers to hold the phone in his left hand so he can do things while on a call with his dominant right. “These were a gift,” he murmurs. 

David doesn’t know if Marcy and Clint recognize them - they’d only seen him once before he’d switched silver for gold - 

“Oh?” Clint says cautiously as Marcy blurts out, “Who from?” 

Patrick holds out his hand, the one David slipped those rings on not 24 hours ago ago, eyes never leaving the screen. 

And David takes it, letting Patrick give him a gentle tug. 

“Mom, Dad...” he starts, and then David drops down next to him into frame, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s temple, smile splitting his face as he catches sight of his in-laws. 

“Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas?” he asks. 

And if the scream that leaves Marcy Brewer’s mouth is any indication, well, David has a sneaking suspicion they just did.


End file.
